


In the Eyries

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe- People Wear Sensible Armor, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Time Shenanigans, Dead Babies (Mentioned), Developing Relationship, Drama, F/F, Family, Found Family, Friendship, Hiatus, Humor, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Wyvern Homosexuality, My Name is Ryan and in My Spare Time I Write Novels, No Homophobes Allowed, PTSD, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Recovery, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Universe Alteration, Valm Arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11902032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: In the two years Gerome has been in the past, he's been alone-- except for Minerva, of course. Haunted by the ghosts of a mother he watched die and a father he never knew, he has to make his way alongside the rest of his flock to try and reverse an apocalyptic future.But things end up a little different the second time around. By the year 1418 of the Archanean calendar, Chrom hasn't even married-- and nor have any of his Shepherds, despite the fact that Lucina knows for a fact that 1418 is the year she was born. As tensions in Valm rise, so too do questions of the families of Lucina's flock, and of the justice in holding one man responsible for his alternate self's wrongdoing.This is a story of hope and justice, of family, of friendships, of wyvern homosexuality, and of the gross, bloody, messy, disgusting, fuckin' miracle of life.





	In the Eyries

**Author's Note:**

> behold: the Gerome Fic
> 
> there are various flavors of Badness in this fic, a lot of it to do with lucina's past relationship with robin and with the backstories and circumstances of various future kids, most prominently nah's. if the content warned for in the tags bothers you, practice self-care and read something else, as i am not responsible for policing your content intake. be in control of your own internet experience. sometimes Just Moving On (tm) is best.

Wyvern Valley was filled with song the night Gerome joined. This was in no small part due to the nearby village, celebrating the safe return of all of its citizens. And of course, the Shepherds couldn't refuse to take part just for humility's sake— they'd camped for the night anyway, so why wouldn't they join in on the celebration? The ale flowed freely, and the smells and sounds of human festivities permeated the night air. Gerome did not take part, and instead listened to the party fade as the night went on, and slept when the torches went out in the wee hours of the morn.  
  
Gerome woke on his bedroll, a forearm thrown over his eyes and a quilt tossed over his lap. The Valmese sun was bright in his eyes. It was a clear morning, and his keen ears could hear the calls of wyverns echoing through the valley. It was a good day to fly.  
  
Minerva purred, stretching out her wings. Gerome sat up and rubbed at her left wing joint— the one that's always bothered her, at least as long as Gerome could remember. It didn't seem to be bothering her much that day, which was a blessing, but he hoped none of her other old aches and scars were too bad. Though he figured that if they were, she would tell him.  
  
"Good morning, old girl," he murmured, rubbing her snout. Minerva rumbled approval. "Slept well, did you?"  
  
Minerva crowed low in reply. Gerome beamed, as much as he ever did— so she had. He let himself fuss over Minerva for another minute and then went to put on his mask, like he did every morning. Then he combed his hair, laced his boots, brushed the dust off his trousers, did the buttons on his gambeson, buckled on his breastplate, tucked his sleeves into his gloves. Decked out in the same black and gray as the scarred mottle of Minerva's scales, the only thing that stood out was the rosy pink of his hair. It didn't quite fit his aesthetic, but he couldn't very well change it unless he wanted to comb charcoal through his hair every morning. Sometimes, one just has to make do.  
  
While Minerva went to go hunt for some breakfast, Gerome packed up his few belongings in preparation for the march back to the base of the Valmese Resistance— an old fort, Lucina told him, that Say'ri was generously letting them use alongside her Resistance. Though the Resistance itself was a small and scattered force, the fort was defensible enough that they could safely use it as a base.  
  
Gerome ate alone, stirring honey into his porridge with perhaps a little more gusto than most would use, savoring the sweetness with a little more relish than most would have. But could anyone blame him?  
  
He didn't notice when Robin sat down next to him, but he did notice when something purple blocked his sunlight. He looked up, quirking an eyebrow and forgetting, still, that nobody can see his eyebrows.  
  
"You must be Gerome," Robin said, with a pleasant smile on his face. He looked exactly the same as the Robin Gerome had known, except twenty-some years younger. It wasn't that Gerome knew him personally, but he could tell both Robins had the same sort of glittering intelligence in their dark eyes, and a subtle, vaguely warm presence that pressed itself to the wall but observed everything it could. Almost greedily searching for information, for knowledge, whether Robin consciously wanted to or not. Even now, without the silver at his temples and the lines in his forehead, Gerome could practically feel Robin's caluclated gaze measuring him, putting numbers to his skills and planning where to put him. That wasn't why Gerome disliked him, though.  
  
Gerome grunted. "I am," he said. "And you're Robin."  
  
"So you know me," Robin replied. "From your future?"  
  
"Not well." Gerome took a bite of his honeyed porridge. "But well enough."  
  
Robin was a smart man, and could tell when someone disliked him. He shifted, a little awkwardly. "I thought I'd come by and welcome you to the Shepherds personally, Gerome," he said, Plegian accent coloring his words with hues fit for wide desert skies. "I hope you'll find the rest of them as welcoming."  
  
"I don't intend to stay long," Gerome said curtly. "But thank you for the welcome."  
  
His tone was, perhaps, a little sharp— and he had to remind himself that this Robin had done nothing wrong. This Robin wasn't the one who hurt Lucina.  
  
Robin scratched at the back of his neck. "First Lucina, now you," he sighed. "Seems I'm not very well-liked in the future, yes?"  
  
Gerome spared him a dry glance. "I have ample reason to dislike that version of you," he said. "I realize you've done nothing in this time, but that doesn't mean I'll be letting my guard down."  
  
Robin put his hands up. "Goodness," he said. "What in the nine Hells did I do?"  
  
"It isn't my place to say."  
  
"Whose is it?"  
  
"Lucina's."  
  
Robin sighed. "I ought to've figured, given the way she avoids me so. Whatever it is that version of me did, I'll endeavor not to do it this time around."  
  
_You do that,_ Gerome thought. Of course Lucina avoided Robin. Had Gerome been in her shoes, he would, too. He supposed it's some kind of blessing that Robin didn't know— Lucina played it off like she always did, but to Gerome it was horrific, unforgivable. Gerome had never had any siblings, but he was certain that they fought for one another when it came to things like this.  
  
Gerome grunted. Robin shifted again, then stood. "I'll leave you to your breakfast, yes?" he said.  
  
_You do that,_ Gerome thought again, and didn't say— merely grunted again. He washed down his porridge with a swig from his waterskin. Robin left, disappearing into the collection of Shepherds finishing breakfast or doing chores.  
  
Gerome watched for a while as he ate. The Shepherds had the air of working the same way as a little community— everyone had a job to do and everyone did it to the best of their abilities. He knew that Robin was responsible for this. He always had been, after all. And Gerome wouldn't question Robin's authority or his intelligence just because he didn't like Robin— that wasn't like him.  
  
He ran into Lucina in the mess tent when he dropped off his bowl. Gerome had seen her in the battle for the valley, of course, but that was only briefly, on the field, before she drew her blade and lept forward in the defense of the villagers. In the three-some years since Gerome had last seen her, she'd grown her hair out, no longer the short, boyish cut Severa had given her before going through the gate. She had new scars and new freckles on her face, and it seemed to Gerome that, despite everything, she still drank like a merc of forty instead of the young twenty-two that she was.  
  
Ordinarily, Lucina cut a figure that somehow managed to strike both homely and awe-inspiring; she radiated comfort, safety, hope while still looking like a figure that made Gerome want to drop to one knee and pledge his fealty and his blade for the rest of his life. Even before having her child, she carried herself like a commander but conducted herself like a sister, a mother to all lost souls she came across. Her very being was a promise of both strength and safety. She held herself like a pledge that said to all those who saw that she would lead them, guide them, make them strong, but also that she would take all the broken, all the lost who needed a place to be, and she would hold them and keep them safe for as long as her arms would last. And that was exactly what she did.  
  
Though at her core, Lucina was just a person— man or woman depended on the day. Gerome had earned her trust, and this was a gift he would not take lightly. As the years in that dark future they'd shared had passed, something _more_ had come to form between them, though. Something deeper than mere friendship. What was it? Ah yes— family.  
  
But that was neither here nor there. When Gerome spotted her in the mess tent, she looked miserable and was nursing what looked like, alternately, a headache tonic and a cup of tea. She had her ever-present blue gambeson half-unlaced over her darker blue shirt and had the sleeves of both pushed up to her elbows, letting the ties dangle over the quilted fabric and her hard steel breastplate. An empty but strong-smelling tankard hung by its handle from her belt alongside a plain dagger barely six inches long, a little leather belt pocket, and her coin purse.  
  
She noticed him, cracked a smile, and waved him over. Gerome sat down.  
  
"Forgive me for not greeting you last night," she said. "I'm afraid I wasn't exactly at my best." She was eloquent as ever, and doing The Thing where she pretends to play off her drinking problem as something embarrassing but minor. Gerome understood why she drank and why she pushed it down, but it stung. Still, it wasn't his place to say so— not then, not there.  
  
"I saw you in battle," Gerome replied. "That was enough."  
  
"Most of us like to greet our friends with words and not blades," Lucina quipped, taking a sip of her tea. She made to take another sip of her tonic, then gave up and poured the foul-smelling tonic into her teacup. She knocked back the whole thing like it was bitter medicine or the rotgut she no doubt drank in the company of the sellswords she worked with before coming to join the Shepherds officially.  
  
Gerome grunted. "Did you want something?"  
  
Lucina shrugged. "I can't talk to my friend?"  
  
"I'd thought the others would've arrived by now."  
  
Her face darkened. "Not yet," she said gravely. "You're the only one I've found. I've been using the Shepherds' resources to search for others and I have leads on this continent for a few— Owain and Cynthia, mostly, you know how they make an _impression_ whether they try to or not— but I've yet to nail down a position."  
  
She washed down her gods-awful tonic-and-tea mixture with a skin of water she kept on her other hip while Gerome mused upon this. He'd noticed a lack of exuberant energy about the camp, though he couldn't pin down what it was until just then. Gerome only grunted acknowledgement. He needn't say much else.  
  
"I ran into Robin earlier," he said, failing to keep the distaste from his voice.  
  
Lucina sighed. " _Please_ tell me you didn't do anything rash," she said.  
  
"I didn't _threaten_ him, if that's what you're asking," Gerome replied. "Merely… made it clear that if he stepped out of line, the appropriate consequences would come."  
  
"The appropriate consequences," Lucina repeated. "Meaning…"  
  
"Perhaps axes would be involved. If necessary."  
  
Gerome didn't have to be looking at her to know that Lucina was looking at him with disapproval. " _Gerome_ ," she scolded. "I _know_ I told you I can fight my own battles."  
  
"I'm not _trying_ to fight your battles," Gerome replied. "But if he moves to hurt you again, then he'll get what's coming to him. It's only fair."  
  
Lucina chuckled dryly. "Whatever did I do to deserve a friend like you, Gerome?"  
  
Gerome grunted. "At this point, I doubt it's a question of deserving."  
  
He had a point. Lucina hummed, finishing off her tea. She stood. "You'd best start packing up," she said. "I expect the Shepherds will start taking down camp for the march back to the fort soon."  
  
Gerome gave her a salute. Lucina cracked a smile, and Gerome felt the corner of his mouth rise, just a touch. For a moment, it felt like old times— except it wasn't, because it was just them. There was no Inigo, no Kjelle, no Nah, no Noire, no Severa, no Laurent, no anybody. There wasn't even a guarantee that any of them had even survived. So far it seemed to just be Lucina and Gerome— and Morgan, of course. He couldn't forget about Morgan.  
  
Gods— Gerome hadn't seen Morgan since they jumped through the gate, and that'd been nearly four years ago. Morgan had been just a baby when he last saw her, small and potato-shaped and always with Lucina. His most vivid memory of her was her throwing up on him when he took her so Lucina could rest, and then having Severa scold him for not burping her right. Well, how was he supposed to know how to correctly burp an infant?  
  
He supposed Morgan wasn't exactly an infant any more, though. So much for learning.  
  
Gerome didn't carry much with him— he was on the move so much, there was little point. It was a habit that'd stuck with him, growing up, since being weighed down with _things_ would leave him vulnerable to attack. He rolled up his bedroll and fastened it to his knapsack, tucked his change of clothes and his coin purse in the main pocket, put his rations and his folded-up map and his box of dragon treats on top. He took one of them out and tossed it to Minerva, who eagerly and expertly caught it. Yarne had made them ages ago out of dried-up vulture meat, tree roots, and mashed salmonberries all held together with animal fat, intending them to be preserves for everyone else, but Minerva and Nah had been the only ones able to eat them.  
  
Oh, Nah. Gerome felt a little saddened at the reminder, watching Minerva chomp on the softball-sized chunk of packed food matter. Gerome, though he'd be the last to admit it, felt a little bit like an elder brother figure to all of the rest of their friends— though he wasn't quite the familial presence that Lucina was. It was like that with Nah especially, as one of the youngest of the flock, and Gerome felt a special sort of cameraderie with her if only because of their shared connection to dragonkind. In addition to that, Nah had no family that she could remember any more than the barest traces of— no smile to remember, no face to see in a dream, no memorial to visit. Obviously somebody had called her by her name enough for it to stick, and somebody had taught her to walk and speak and dress herself, but she had no memories of them. The others had names to mourn for and reminisce about. Nah had no one.  
  
(They'd fished her out of a well when Gerome and Lucina were seventeen, in a town north of the crumbled longfort that'd burned to a crisp when the forest surrounding it caught fire in the dry summer heat. She'd been frozen and starving and sick enough she'd have died down there if they'd gotten there even a day later. After Lucina wrapped her in her thick woolen cloak and carried her to their convoy wagon, a silent understanding had passed between Gerome and Lucina— that they would not, _could_ not let this girl continue to be alone.)  
  
He hoped Nah was alright, wherever she was— and that she'd return to them soon. Perhaps it was in vain, but he could hope. There was no rule against it.  
  
He led Minerva out to the rest of the caravan when they were starting to move. Robin sat cross-legged on top of one of the wagons while Sir Frederick, looking twenty years younger and a great deal more constipated than Gerome remembered, tended to the horses. Robin looked like he was taking attendance, and when he noticed Gerome, he added a name to the roster.  
  
He hopped off the top of the wagon and landed flawlessly. A beat later, he emerged from behind another wagon.  
  
"Gerome," he called. "Hold there for a minute, will you?"  
  
Gerome couldn't fathom what he wanted, but his first instinct was to ask Robin if he would, perhaps, not address him by his first name. But he said nothing, and grunted while Robin pulled out his roster and a pencil.  
  
"Your name's spelled with a G and not a J, yes?" Robin asked. "And I'm afraid I didn't catch your surname?"  
  
"It's a G," Gerome said. "And it's Eyrie. That's _E-Y-R-I-E."_  
  
Robin jotted that down, then a few more notes. "Your birthday?"  
  
"The first of September."  
  
"The year?"  
  
"This year, 1418."  
  
Robin clicked his tongue in self-admonishment. "Ah, yes. You've not been born yet. Your age, then?"  
  
Gerome wondered why he needed to know any of this, and told him twenty-two. Robin muttered more notes to himself as he jotted this down. Gerome had absolutely no idea what he was saying, since he was muttering in Plegian. But he finished with a satisfied nod.  
  
"Group up with the rest of the fliers," he said, with the politeness of a suggestion but the air of an order. "And, ah, Eyrie— that's Cherche's surname, yes? What does it mean?"  
  
"An Eyrie is a wyvern roost," Gerome replied. "Presumably wyvern-training runs in the family."  
  
Robin hummed. "Ay-ree," he repeated, not quite getting the accent right. "It's lovely."  
  
Gerome grunted. "Thank you."  
  
Robin nodded his goodbye and left, back to taking attendance, presumably. Gerome sighed to himself. So much for walking with Lucina…  
  
The other fliers, Cherche and those two pegasus knights, stood apart from the rest of the caravan with space to take off. Gerome set himself back and busied himself with adjusting the buckles on Minerva's saddlebags. Minerva purred, nudging him with her snout— she was trying to groom him. He sighed, because by this point there was nothing he could do to stop her. Minerva was under the impression that all of Lucina's flock were her pups, but especially Gerome and, unsurprisingly, Nah.  
  
He heard a familiar tittering laugh behind him and the hairs on his neck stood on his end. He whirled, quicker than was necessary in that more peaceful time. But it was just Cherche, her hand on the reins of a Minerva twenty years younger.  
  
"She thinks you're her pup," Cherche remarked, a hand over her mouth in a way that seemed overly maidenish for the peerless warrior Gerome knew his mother was. "How cute!"  
  
Gerome grunted. "What do you want?"  
  
The hand went to brush a stray leaf from Minerva's head. "I was just noticing that, is all," she shrugged. "And I understand why. With a bond like Minerva's and mine, it's only sensible that she'd adopt you as one of her pups with me gone."  
  
It made sense Minerva would've adopted Nah, too. Gerome didn't voice that. "I thought we were about to leave."  
  
Cherche waved a hand. "What's wrong with a little bit of conversation?" she replied. "Until you showed up, I was the only one with a wyvern. We have common ground."  
  
"We have the same wyvern," Gerome replied, perhaps sharper than needed. Cherche's amicable smile vanished. Gerome cleared his throat. "I know what you're doing, and I'd like you to stop. You aren't my mother."  
  
"You told me as much." Cherche let go of her Minerva's reins to examine the elder Minerva, who purred like a happy cat under her touch, tail swishing and pressing her snout into Cherche's hand. The younger Minerva looked like she was trying not to look jealous, and was failing.  
  
"Goodness," Cherche remarked, more talking to the elder Minerva than Gerome. "The future wasn't kind to you, was it? But you're still in your prime! I knew it was true what they said about wyverns getting better with age…"  
  
Gerome shifted. "She worked with me well in… the future," he said. "Though getting her to listen to me as a rider was another matter."  
  
"Oh?" Cherche asked, examining Minerva's neck scales and gently pressing on each joint. Minerva made a noise when she pressed the ones that ached, and Cherche made a noise of sympathy and rubbed the ache away.  
  
Gerome felt himself talking more, despite knowing there was no point. "She wouldn't accept you were gone, so another hand on her reins was… unacceptable. It was all I could do to not get thrown off the first times I tried to mount her."  
  
"Of course," Cherche nodded. "Wyverns are notoriously attached to their riders, as I'm sure you know… it's the same for pegasi, actually, which I've just learned. Who taught you to fly?"  
  
"I taught myself." From the few books there were and from recalling flying with the older Cherche in his youth, but mostly from trial and error and a lot of help from Minerva.  
"Impressive," Cherche remarked. "Goodnes, Minerva, your poor wings! How does she fly?"  
  
"Carefully," Gerome replied. "We've adapted to the wing damage." Minerva's wings were indeed damaged— she'd taken more arrows through the membrane than was healthy, and a wound any closer to the joint would've grounded her for the rest of her life. As it was they were peppered with arrow holes that'd healed into tough scars, the very edges of her wing membranes singed but stable and uninfected. Her left had been broken one too many times, and he could tell the healed breaks hurt her badly when the weather turned foul. But Minerva was a mount that had carried Cherche through several wars and Gerome through the end of the world, flying steadfast through all types of weather and all seasons. She was twice the warrior either Gerome or Cherche was. But even Gerome could tell her time as a warrior's mount was coming to an end if she sustained more injuries like that.  
  
"Such a strong girl," Cherche cooed, taking Minerva's head and pressing a kiss to her snout. "You protected Gerome when I couldn't, didn't you?"  
  
Minerva lowed. She'd missed Cherche's affection.  
  
"I knew you would," Cherche murmured. "And I know my Minerva would do the same!" She switched wyverns, giving her Minerva the affection she'd spared for the elder Minerva. Gerome was getting confused with these names, but they were both the same Minerva— he couldn't very well start calling his Minerva something new, and he couldn't ask Cherche to do that, either.  
  
A whistle sounded. Automatically, Gerome looked up. But it was Robin, standing on top of one of the caravans. He waved, then blew the whistle twice in two short bursts. Cherche hopped onto Minerva and the pegasus riders that Gerome didn't know did the same. In sync, the mounts spread their wings. Gerome hurried to do the same before the next whistle blast.  
  
At the long whistle blast, the four fliers took to the skies. Then Robin blew the whistle twice more, and the cavalry snapped to attention. They were next, starting to march down the road. Then the supply caravans, and then the open wagons carrying soldiers without mounts. From the sky, Gerome watched Robin lithely hop from the supply caravan onto Sir Frederick's horse. Then he blew the whistle a final time, longer than he had for the attention signal, and the rest of the riders spurred their mounts into a full flight. Gerome, no choice but to follow, did the same— zipping into the sky.

* * *

The Valmese sky was cold and clear, and especially cold around the fort buried in the mountain peaks of a territory with a name that's been lost in the struggle with Walhart's forces. It was one of the first casualties, but it was so remote that the Conqueror didn't bother checking on it— this was why Say'ri picked it for a base.  
  
It was cold in the mountains. Gerome was thankful for the rabbit-fur lining of his gloves, even as old as they were. Minerva was content to huddle with the younger Minerva in the relative shelter of the stables, head under her wing, and Gerome was content to let her. She deserved it, after the long flight.  
  
Gerome took a look around the yard. The sparring ring, covered in a layer of fallen snow, sat in one corner. On the other side of the yard, a few archers in heavy coats and shabby livery of territories crushed by the Conqueror practiced their shots on wooden bullseye targets. He spotted Robin, wearing a thick blue scarf under his violet coat, walking along the exterior corridor bordering the sunken yard. He was talking with Chrom, reluctantly bundled into a shapeless maroon sweater and sheepskin jacket, and the swordswoman Say'ri, hands bare despite the cold and one resting on the handle of a gently-curving sword that stuck out from beneath her coat.  
  
The fort was built low and into the side of the mountain, with only a precarious path barely wide enough for the Shepherds' wagons to ride up leading to its entrance. Banners hung from its twin watchtowers, boasting the snake-and-spears shield of House Anry, though Gerome doubted the Anry lineage was still around. From the outside, the fort was unimpressive— and it was a modest fort, nothing grand or fanciful, but most of the fort was built inside the mountain. Inside the stone was the armory, the war room, the commons, the infirmary, the barracks, the mess hall, the kitchens, all connected with torchlit corridors and sturdy wooden doors. Nothing meant for hundreds and hundreds of soldiers, but for Say'ri's scattered forces and Chrom's mercenary band with a royal seal of approval, it fit just fine.  
  
It was too cold to stay out, though. Even if it was cold in the sky, Gerome didn't much want to be cold on the ground, too. So down the stairs and into the mountain he went, taking refuge in a dim common room that looked mercifully empty of Chrom's Shepherds and Say'ri's dynasts alike.  
  
He tossed another log from the woodpile onto the hearth and poked it apart, making the fire come to life and spread heat through the room. He set his gloves aside, then his thick coat and muffler, then unlaced his boots and wiggled his cold toes. The warmth was a blessing— he hadn't realized how stiff he was.  
  
His ears pricked up at the creak of the door, and he turned when he smelled the tantalizing scent of cooked meat. His stomach growled in anticipation, even though it long ago learned that the days of hearty, tender, fat-filled meals dripping with sauces and covered in butter were over. And yet, the meaty smell of beef so soft he could pull it apart with a fork, mingled with the caramelized sugars of cooked carrots, the squishy starchiness of potato pieces, the celery and onions with just enough firmness to complete the texture palate— all dripping with meaty beef gravy, savory and hearty and warm. It'd melt in his mouth and settle in his stomach, radiating warmth through his stiff, aching limbs, and if there was enough for him to eat his fill it'd keep him sated until the next meal. There was the dream, right there— not going to bed hungry.  
  
It was Lucina, and she was holding two bowls of the heavenly stuff. She had her coat over one arm and her sword ever-present at her hip. She nodded to Gerome with a smile and sat down on the thick pelt rug, pulling off her gloves and warming her hands by the fire. Her right hand was still scarred and mis-healed, bones knit back together and fused in a way that limited its use. Gerome was there when she got those breaks, when she jumped in front of a shield charge meant for a friend who died of a stab wound the next day.  
  
Lucina offered him a bowl. Gerome's stomach growled. He took it, stirred it hesitantly with the fork sticking out of the bowl, almost not wanting to ruin the anticipation.  
  
"Go ahead," she encouraged him. "There's enough for everyone."  
  
"I couldn't possibly eat all of this," Gerome replied. "What about Morgan, has she—"  
  
"Morgan's had her fill and just went down for her nap," Lucina insisted. "Go on. I've got some too."  
  
Gerome half-smiled. He stirred the bowl of thick beef stew and his hand almost trembled, as if denying that it was even real. But he speared a bite of gravy-covered beef, so soft with melted fat that his fork dove into it with barely any resistance. The sauce dripped back into the bowl with appetizing languor. Gerome felt another hunger pang in his gut. He took a bite.  
  
Immediately, he wanted to cry. But he pushed back his tears, soaking in the softness of the meat, the kick of the onion, the savoriness of the gravy. Lucina stirred her bowl idly, smiling a little as she watched him, against his better judgement, start shoveling it into his mouth as fast as possible now that the initial savoring was done.  
  
"There's more where that came from," she told him. Gerome was too busy trying not to cry into his bowl of stew to answer.  
  
"It's good," he choked out, voice cracking. "It's really— it's very good."  
  
Lucina smiled a little, and picked up her own bowl. Gerome had his moment silently, knowing full well Lucina could read him like a book, and he realized just how much he'd missed the company of his friends.  
  
They ate in relative silence, save for the sounds of the forks against the bowls and the ever-present crackling of the fireplace. Unsurprisingly, Gerome finished first, and had to reign himself in from licking up every bit of gravy from the bowl. Lucina, who paced herself a little better, stacked the empty bowls when she was finished and set the forks inside, then set them aside. She'd take them back to mess later.  
  
It was quiet. Gerome breathed. His eyelids felt heavy, but he made himself stay awake. Just because he was full for the first time in years didn't mean he could let his guard down now. He glanced over at Lucina, who was poking at the fire and watching the sparks spread.  
  
He broke the silence. "So, how are you holding up?" he asked, keeping his voice low despite the fact that they were alone in the small sitting room.  
  
Lucina gave him an unreadable look— dammit, that's his shtick— and looked back at the fire. "With regards to what?"  
  
"Robin." Gerome, attuned to detail, noticed the way her shoulders tensed. He almost regretted his line of questioning and was about to call it off and change the subject when Lucina replied.  
  
"It's hard," Lucina admitted, shoulders lowering. She took the flask off her belt and uncorked it, filling the room with the smell of something like paint fumes. She swirled it and took a swig, staring into the fire with eyes that have seen far too much in far too few years.  
  
"Seeing him, I mean," she added. "I know this Robin hasn't done anything. He's been polite to me like he is to everyone, and if anything he's been keeping his distance— but given how closely he and my father work, it's… impossible for me to avoid him _entirely_."  
  
Gerome grunted. Lucina took a deep swig from her flask of pirate spit. Gerome knew she'd been drinking for quite a while, but he wondered how she could stand it.  
  
Lucina shook her head. "Whenever I look at him," she mumbled. "At Robin— I see… _Robin_. I feel him, _smell_ him. On my skin, in my lungs… it's strange. He never once touched me if I said I didn't want it, but the memories of him feel like acid on my skin." She curled in on herself, clutching her arms. Gerome wanted to reach out and rub her back, let her know silently that he was there for her, but he knew Lucina wouldn't want to be touched, not now. He set his idle hands on his knees.  
  
She pushed her hair back from her face and took another swig. Wordlessly, she offered it to Gerome. Against his better judgement, Gerome took it and took a drink, feeling like liquid fire was running down his throat. He managed not to cough it all up and handed it back to Lucina.  
  
She sighed. "Am I allowed to regret it?" she asked, more hypothetical than anything. "Because as much as it hurt me, as much as it's affecting me even now, I can't regret Morgan. I won't. None of this was her fault. If anything, it was mine." She shook her head bitterly, drinking deep from her flask. The burn down her throat made her feel like herself again, if only for a bit.  
  
"It wasn't your fault," Gerome said. "There's no reason for you to regret what you were a victim of."  
  
"Gods, I hate that word," Lucina scoffed into her flask. " _Victim_. It makes me sound like some reedy flower helpless to the whims of a man's cruelty, in need of a strong knight that'll set out to heal my brokenness, while along the way using my defiled purity to redeem his own angst-filled heart."  
  
"It's just a word," Gerome replied bluntly. "And it's the right one."  
  
"Still." Lucina took another drink.  
  
"What other word do you suggest?" Gerome asked, arching an eyebrow.  
  
"I don't think there is one," Lucina admitted.  
  
Gerome let the covnversation linger there in silence while Lucina drank. She shook it off when she was done, and corked her flask again. She was drinking too quickly for it to have hit her yet, but Gerome didn't dobut it'd hit hard when it did.  
  
She sighed. "Sometimes I wish you weren't such a damned good listener, Gerome."  
  
"It's what I do."  
  
Lucina chuckled. "You're alright, Gerome," she decided. "I'm glad I have you. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you're here, changing fate with me."  
  
Gerome allowed himself a small smile. "What sort of brother-in-arms would I be if I left my liege to her own devices in an unfamiliar time?"  he replied. "I'll admit I wanted only to release Minerva and then set down my blade for good, but it seems it's harder to get rid of you than that."  
  
Lucina leaned over and affectionately nudged his shoulder with her fist. "Indeed it is," she replied. "You're stuck with me, it seems."  
  
"I can live with that," Gerome admitted.  
  
At that, Lucina laughed. "You're going _soft_ on me! Imagine that!"  
  
"I'm nothing of the sort, I promise."  
  
"Oh, don't worry. I won't tell a soul."  
  
Gerome glanced at her. She was smiling, a far cry from even a minute before. It was a refreshing sight, even if Gerome knew she was only really smiling because she was drinking. One problem at a time.  
  
Lucina raised her flask. Then she took Gerome's hand and put the flask in it, so they were both holding it— an impromptu toast. Gerome almost winced in anticipation for the end of it, when he'd be expected to drink as well. Maybe he could fake it.  
  
"To the future," Lucina decided.  
  
"To our friends," Gerome replied.  
  
"To changing fate," Lucina finished, holding the flask in their joined hands in the air. "And to us."  
  
She pulled it from Gerome's hand and took a deep swig, knocking her head back, then handed it to Gerome. And Gerome would drink to that, so he drank, and somehow it didn't feel as terrible the second time. Must've been because all the nerve endings in his throat were dead.

**Author's Note:**

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